


"Marry me, Melinda!"

by Axolotl7



Series: Drunk Dialled [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A little, Angst, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Philinda - Freeform, Philinda Phone Calls, Team as Family, but also fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-25 16:30:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13838667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Axolotl7/pseuds/Axolotl7
Summary: She has to remind herself that he doesn’t mean it when he proposes. He’s just drunk. Again.Phil’s drunken phone call this time…(And then Skye kicks both their asses to a happy ending :D )





	1. She hates taking his calls

“Marry me, Melinda!”

 

There's an instant, the barest moment of a trifling of time, where she almost believes he's serious. 

She daren’t explain how her heart ceases to beat for that instant, how her whole body stops, how her soul pines... Wishing. Hoping. She doesn't acknowledge any of that consciously; it'd hurt too much in the instant after, the seconds and the minutes that follow, the hours and the days thereafter when she knows it isn’t real.

“Meeeliiiinnddaaaa....”

She knows he's drunk. Or drugged is actually more likely given the state of him when she had escaped medical herself some hours earlier.

“Melindaaaaa May, I love you. Melindaaaaaa May, I doooo.”

He does this every damned time. Or near enough that she should have remembered to reject his call - save them both the embarrassment if he remembers this tomorrow. Fortunately - or maybe not - fortunately, he doesn't remember anything come morning. The last dozen times or so he hasn't anyway. It's kind of a relief not to have to deal with it whilst he’s sober. Kind of.

He forgets and she conveniently doesn't remind him. 

She tells herself she doesn’t want to embarrass him. 

She knows the real reason she hesitates to bring it up is selfish – she doesn’t want to raise the prospect whilst he’s sober, doesn’t want to see the shock or the flash of disgust in his expression or the pity that would undoubtedly follow. She couldn’t cope with his pity.

“Melinda, are you even there!?” His voice is a little bit more intent, a little bit more snappy – he hates being ignored and he hates being bored. Being trapped in medical is the worst combination of the two enforced upon them for whatever set period it takes before they can escape from under overly-watchful eyes. He hates being stuck in medical almost as much as she does, but she wasn’t hanging around and risking getting cajoled and berated in to a bed when her quarters (and a shower!) were just a few more dozen hallways of faltering steps away. 

She doesn't particularly want to risk going back there to help spring him either. She tells herself that it’s the risk that she might get recaptured herself if she ventures too close but in reality it’s the dread of facing him - he has a remarkable habit of continuing to propose to her in person. That's so much harder to brush aside. When he's actually in front of her, his face beaming like she's his whole world, his eyes so hopeful, so expectant, and she has to be the one to demolish both their hopes. No, it's better like this, over the phone, distant. She can't see the way his face crumbles when she doesn't leap into his arms smiling and crying joyous tears as she proclaims to the world that ‘yes! Yes, she loves him. Yes, she will marry him. Yes!’

“Mel, don't say I'm talking to myself again.” She hates hearing the sadness in his voice when he quietly pleads with her like this. “Please tell me you’re there.” Hates it almost enough to say something, anything to distract him and take the pain away. “Just raise an eyebrow or something like you usually ... oh wait. Nope, won't work ‘cos this is a phone call. Try a snort for me then. A scoff or something to tell me that you’re at least listening.”

She can't force her fingers to move and strike the button to hang up on him, miss what else he might proclaim and avoid the further torture to her heart. She wishes that she could.

“Agent May, I order you to speak to me!” Pfft, as if that ever works.

“...If you are actually there.” She can’t hold back a snort of a laugh at that.

“Yeah, I know. When has giving you an order ever actually worked?” It takes him about twenty seconds to realise – “oh but it did work! You made a noise and you are there! Melinda, I love you.”

Oh how she wishes he'd stop saying that. 

“And I always have.” Why does he always make this harder for her? She'd love to pretend just for a moment. Just let her mind imagine that somewhere, maybe in a different dimension, in a different world, there's a universe where he says it and means it and the two do them can be happily ever after. Together. She shakes her head in a misguided attempt to dislodge the thought and brushes a hand beneath eyes that are steadily filling with tears she can’t seem to hold back. 

Not this world. 

She doesn't deserve happiness. 

She certainly doesn't deserve him.

“And I'm tired of wasting our time never risking saying something. I love you.” Stop saying that please. The words speak straight to her heart and it aches so heavily. 

“And I want to marry you.” Why does he say such things? Why doesn’t he understand how much this means? How much it hurts? 

“Please say yes. Marry me. Be my wife. Mr and Mrs Coulson - or no no no no no nooo. I didn't mean that.” Sense?

“You don't have to take my name.” Obviously not. Just the drugged ramblings of a man she’d love- 

“You can still be May. In fact I could take your name. I could be Phil May!” As if it would ever matter what they called themselves.

“Only... only I'm gonna get picked on for that you know. Phil may do this, Phil may do that. It's not a good second name. I mean its fine for you. You've got that whole scary thing going for you. No matter how I try I still end up ‘approachable’.” He can’t lie to her about something like that; she knows he loves being ‘approachable’ and ‘ordinary.’ 

“Not at all scary. It's really not fair you know. You just look at them, maybe raise an eyebrow, narrow the eyes a little... and poof they scarper.” He doesn’t know how much she’d love to change places and be just as ‘approachable’ as he, just as respected... just as loved.

“I think I need lessons in glaring.” How can he break her heart in two and make her want to laugh through the tears at the same time? 

“Do you think they'd be worthwhile? I mean I could always ask Fury. It's not like he's doing anything much these days... He should have plenty of time to train me right?” Plenty of time... she’d always thought they’d have plenty of time for everything. She’s not so certain that they’re not running out, that the time on them hasn’t already been and gone, that they both missed their opportunity oh so many years ago.

“You know I love you even when you don’t talk to me, right?” If her not talking was a deal breaker then they’d have stopped working together decades ago. He more than makes up for her lack of words with his abundance!

“You know I've loved you since you first landed me on my ass in our first hand to hand class.” He'd been so geeky and unfailingly polite as he'd invited her to partner with him. The same way he'd no doubt invite a lady to dance. She'd been so nervous, so eager to prove herself against so many others - bigger, stronger, overconfident. She'd used poor Phil as her example - arm out stretched to try to grab her had been turned against him. A twist, a shift of weight, a turn of her body and a heave. A startled yelp. A dull thud of body hitting the mats. His groan in winded pain.

“I loved that you chose to partner with me after that too.” Guilt had driven her at first. “I know you said it was because I was the worst fighter there.” He really was but... more than that, he hadn’t cared when he’d been thrown by the smallest in the class, he hadn’t gotten frustrated or threatened to take her down next time or... he’d laughed. Just that. Just laughed. “I know you really trained me because you didn’t want me to get hurt. I know you cared, even back then when you tried so hard to pretend to be tough.” She’d stuck with him out of guilt for all the shit he took about it, but once she got to know him... once he became a friend it was so much more. 

“I loved you when you laughed so hard at my inability to skate that you fell on your ass too.” Oh he’d been hilarious that day. She’d finally gotten him out on the ice through a mixture of daring and cajoling only to find that his sense of balance was nigh on none existent upon blades on the ice. She’d laughed so hard she’d clutched at her sides and slowly wobbled to the ground herself unable to stop, giggling renewed every time he tried to push himself up only to flail and cartwheel his arms and land smack bang back on his ass on the ice! “And I loved you even more when you helped me up and pulled me round behind you.” Well she couldn’t just leave him sitting there turning blue when she’d told him she’d teach him to skate – that wouldn’t have been much fun for either of them. 

“Do you know I think I loved you even more the first time I saw you run in to combat?” What? “All brave and strong. Fearless. Courageous.” She wasn’t. She’d been scared out of her wits. So scared she’d run towards the engagement because she could not force herself to remain still and shakingly wait for it to come to them. 

“Did I ever tell you how beautiful you looked after the battle?” She hasn't looked beautiful. She'd been exhausted. Her clothes sweat soaked, torn and bloodied from minor wounds. She'd been a mess. 

“I loved you even more the first time you saved someone's life.” She’d been in a panic; she’d fallen back on training. “It might have helped that it was my own.” She can hear him laughing to himself over the phone line. It hadn’t been funny at the time. She’d been terrified of losing him. Her only thoughts had been to stem the bleeding and get them the hell out of dodge as soon as fucking possible! He’d almost died in her arms back then. She still has nightmares of the blood of that first time.

“I loved you the first time you kissed me.” They’ve never – “I didn't care that it was a cover.” Oh right. “All I cared was that your lips met mine voluntarily. It was all I could do to remember my name afterwards let alone the rest of the mission. It was a good job you took the lead or I’d probably still be standing in that ballroom now looking dazed.” He had been a bit out of it their first mission. She’d put it down to first mission nerves. Fourth mission nerves had hit him too now come to think of it. And on the seventh and eleventh. Maybe he’s just not good at play acting the husband cover when she’s the wife...

“I do love it when we go undercover. I know you hate it though.” She doesn’t hate it. Doesn’t hate it at all actually. It’s the best of both worlds; she gets to pretend and he has to keep up the ruse. It’s only once it’s all over that she struggles to find a semblance of control over herself, to not do or say something inappropriate to their clear working relationship boundaries, to not drink herself to the bottom of a bottle when she realises how foolish she is to dream.

How foolish she is even now.

“I loved you from the first time I watched you stand up to Fury.” Ha! That first time she’d been terrified. She hadn’t known the soft spots the old grumpy bear had back then - for Phil in particular. 

She blames him for that too! “I know. I know. It was my fault. I should’ve let Fury know I was too sick to make the early morning briefing.” Rather than have Fury barge into his quarters shouting and swearing, and frankly scaring the living daylights out of her, whilst she tried to find enough semblance of consciousness to work out who the mad man was and why he was screaming at them both! Admittedly, it hadn’t looked great that he’d found the two of them asleep in the bed, but she’d fallen asleep the previous evening taking care of his protégé so he really should have been thanking her for making sure Phil didn’t expire not yelling at them both about priorities! Phil hadn’t exactly been in a fit state to deal with matters, so she had. With hindsight and the benefit of years of experience, she could probably have handled it more diplomatically than going toe to toe with the guy, lecturing him on privacy and the benefits of knocking before entering. Knowing Fury as she does now, she recognises the impressed glint that was in his eyes back then that saved her from expulsion, and an ass kicking! “But in my defence, I was sick and you could just have told him that normally.” Pfft. Yeah, hindsight.

“You know I loved you even after we’d grown up. I loved you from afar. I read through all of your mission reports.” Geek. Total geek. “You really could use more words to flesh them out a little you know. Make them more of an interesting read than just went there, kicked plentiful asses, retrieved thingy you wanted, got back.” They’re not for late night story-telling, they’re a succinct – “succinct after action summary, I know.” How is it he can read her thoughts so fully normally and not realise how much him calling like this kills her every time? Why does she always answer? Why can’t she let it ring off, let him call another, make the same promises to someone else...?

“You know I loved you even as I watched you agree to marry another man.” No. Not then. Don’t go back to then. “I loved how happy you were.” She’d been so excited to tell him when Drew proposed. She’d never really seen how his face dropped for an instant in despair before he’d raised a mask to cover. “How happy I was for you.” She’d been too young back then to notice. Or maybe she just didn’t want to see. Didn’t want to consider what it meant. 

“I loved you as you walked down the aisle, so beautiful in that light dress, but then you’d be beautiful in anything. I loved you as you said ‘I do’ through a smile and bound yourself to a man I couldn’t even try to hate because he made you so damned happy.” Her hands have to cover her face, rub away the tears from now wet cheeks, throat catching a choked sob, forcing it back silently. He’d been so happy for her. So happy as she married the wrong man.

“Melinda, I’ve loved you for most of my life.” How can he keep doing this to her? How, when he knows rationally that this never works. How, when he must know that his questions only ever break her heart more.

“I love you still.” If only that were true. If only he’d say these things to her and mean them. If only...

“Melinda, please... tell me ‘yes’ this time. Say you'll marry me.” How her heart longs... every time this happens. Every single time. She longs...

“Phil...” She finally breaks her silence because she can’t not. She can’t hear him pleading with her when her very heart aches so much to take everything he unwittingly promises. She knows he doesn’t mean it but she can’t sit here in silence and suffer through him asking her any more.

“Yeah, I know. Same answer every time right? It's just the morphine talking, Phil. Try to get some rest, Phil. We'll talk about it in the morning, Phil.” It is and he does and – how can he turn this around on her like she’s the culprit in this tableau! He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want her. Not really. If he did then it wouldn’t be just the morphine talking. It wouldn’t be just when he’s under the influence and not himself. It wouldn’t be forgotten about as nothing but a half remembered bad dream the following morning. If he really...

“Phil, I -”

“Yeah I know, Mel. I just – never mind.” He says ‘never mind’ like it’s the end of _everything,_ then the dial tone signals that it’s the end of his call once again as he hangs up the line. 

Her knees buckle beneath her, an arm reaching out to slow her decent to the ground, body curing protectively around the now empty phone screen. Her chest heaves an inarticulate cry as she finally she sobs out loud the pain of her heart breaking once again. 

If only he’d make these calls sober. If only he could mean the words he says. If only she could make believe, just for a moment, that it was something he wanted. If only he’d ever actually ask her and mean it. She sniffles again and wipes an already wet sleeve across the cold wetness on her cheeks.

If only he’d ever speak the words without drink or drugs or ...

But that never happens.

Oh how she hates it when he drunk calls her. The calls always end the same maudlin way – with her in tears she’ll never tell him she’s shed. 

 

x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I was mean to May again...
> 
> Sorry! But good news, Skye's gonna kick both their assess next chap so we get a happy ending :D


	2. And Skye in for the win!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No more angst - I promise!

Chapter 2

As always, the next morning arrives and its like nothing has ever happened. She washes away the tear tracks, disguises red looking eyes and uses the peace of tai chi to force order upon her thoughts. She pushes the memory of the call far from the front of her mind, leaving it to drift in place at the back accompanied by oh so many other conversations where he’s drunkenly confessed his love for her. She can’t bring herself to forget entirely, it’s a little comfort she saves, even if it breaks her heart to remember it’s not real. She forces her mind to the present, focuses entirely on what she is doing in the here and now. She showers, dresses and tackles the problem head on... by pretending it never happened. If neither of them remember it then it didn’t. If a tree falls in the forest…

The lights are lowered in medical out of respect for sleeping patients but she can tell from the laughter even beyond the threshold that neither of its current occupants are resting. From the projectile she’s forced to duck as she opens the door, it appears that the two are playing an impromptu game of table pong – albeit with improvised tissue sample baskets scattered about the room and test tube stoppers from the looks of the sheer number of them scattered about the floor as she enters. 

“May!” Skye’s the first one to see her, her casting arm drawn back making her the obvious launcher of this particular cork towards her head, but Phil’s neck swivels almost guiltily around to meet her eyes. He looks better than yesterday at least – the purple bruises now taking on a slightly greenish cast but the skin elsewhere a much more healthy glow than the deathly pale that has caused her concern. That he’s upright on the bed, his feet already swinging over the side about to take that first faltering step to standing (and to escape) makes her lips quirk in an almost smirk. 

“We were doing target practice,” Skye is quick to justify the mess throughout the room. 

May ducks quickly to collect a few, returning them by an arching route through the air, one by one, to accompany her words “You.” The first one takes Skye directly on the forehead, her eyes crossed when it hits after following its path only for it to bop her perfectly in directly between her eyebrows. “Need.” Skye’s shocked eyes shift to stare at her in surprise at the childish behaviour, allowing the second to bop her just as perfectly between the eyes. By the “More.” Skye has finally reacted, her arms thrown across her face like that’ll help and the cork pops her beautifully atop the head as she shouts in denial and dissolves in to giggles falling back on the bed! “Practise” settles for hitting her jaw as Skye successfully squirms and writhes enough to mess up her aim on any better targets. She retargets for the final word, “Then”, a body shot to the heart when a head shot is too high risk of missing as Skye thrashes around laughing and gasping interspersed with half-hearted please to stop that all of them know she doesn’t mean. Skye’s arms drop to catch the heart shot, palms folding neatly over her heart as she continues to try to catch her breath. 

May pauses to let Skye assume the assault is over. She shares a smile with Phil as their eyes meet and walks beyond him to Skye’s bed. “How’d you feel?” she asks a little more concerned as the girl struggles to pull herself back up the bed to a seated position. It’s no fun trying to move with cracked ribs and a casted leg. She reaches over swiftly to help, bodily hauling the girl upwards and plumping the pillows before allowing her to lean backwards, ignoring the little griping she can hear muttered under Skye’s breath about her pandering. She knows what it’s like to be injured and frustrated at one’s own limited capabilities. If she can help, then she will. End of story.

“I feel like I fell off a sixteen story building!” the girl snaps back a little snarkily and because that is pretty much the truth of it she lets the attitude pass.

She still bops her with the remaining cork in a short range underhand throw and can’t stop the smirk that spreads across her face at the pathetic scowl Skye lays on her in return as the cork bounds and drops in to her lap. 

“You need to bend your knees on landing,” May advises faux seriously. As if bending her knees could have saved her from injury in falling such a distance! She catches the incoming pillow before it hits her face and rolls her eyes at the poor attempt.

She forces a critical expression but secretly delight at how this makes the girl struggle to contain her laughter as she giggles again, barely managing comments in between gasps. Something to do with her face, and nearly getting her this time. It’s enough to have made the girl laugh after the fubar of a mission the day before. Still… she should at least try to maintain a little discipline and respect for the chain of command. “And now you’ve lost your pillow,” she declares in a fitting punishment, throwing it atop Coulson’s bed and moving to join him on his bed, leaving the muffled gasps of laughter continuing behind her.

“How’d you feel?” she asks the more sensible of the two, seating herself beside him on the bed and reaching out a hand to check his temperature simply to have an excuse to touch him. 

He catches her wrist gently, pulling it away from his head so that he can look her in the eyes, gauge her own wellbeing in turn. She’s fine. Her shoulder had barely needed stitches. 

“I’m fine, Melinda,” he echoes her thoughts, “Forehead barely needed stitches. They just wouldn’t let me leave after…” after pumping him full of drugs for the pain his ribs would cause him. She forces a smile to her lips in place of the devastation that pierces her heart at the memory of his voice on the call last night. His eyes hold her own almost too heavily, forcing her smile to drop, a swallow, almost forcing a truth from her lips.

An incoming projectile from behind them and the spell is fortunately broken as she reclaims her wrist and tries not to feel hurt at the way he dropped it as though burned. 

“You two so need to get a room!” Skye announces out of nowhere and she’s tempted to fire the pillow back into her face to remove the grin that decorates it. But that would mean leaning over Phil -Coulson to reach it and she’s probably more easily able to maintain her distance if she… well, maintains her distance.

“I’m pleased you’re feeling better,” she says simply as she rises, turns on a heel and makes to exit the room. She is not running away. It’s a sensible tactical retreat. Once she’s more control over herself she’ll be back to spring him from this sterile prison. Maybe tomorrow. Probably the day after. Whenever she has her head on straight and her heart back in its box. Certainly by the end of the week.

“You CANNOT be serious!” Skye shouts far more loudly than she needs to do in the small room with only the three of them but its enough to force her to turn, one eyebrow raised in question. Leaving after an outburst like that would only serve to prove that something was wrong. Nothing is wrong. Nothing happened if no one speaks about it. _“’I’m pleased you’re feeling better,_ ’” Skye mimics her in a ridiculously high pitched voice that sets her teeth on edge. “That’s it?!”

She steps back towards Skye’s bed, with puzzlement on her face, “What do you want me to say, Skye?”

“What do I want: I-I want you to say YES! For Gods sake, he asked you to marry him last night and you – I want you to say yes!” Skye’s frustration with her is apparent from her stumbling words but the world is rushing through her ears deafening her, drowning her thoughts as she stands here in haunted shock. Skye heard their call, Coulson’s side of it anyway. Skye -

She swallows, trying to find the words to explain -

But how to explain… how to admit out loud… that he only proposes when he’s drunk.

That he doesn’t really want this.

Doesn’t want her.

When the hope is all her heart hangs on.

“I-”

“I’m sorry. I did it again, didn’t I?” Coulson’s soft words overtake her own, apology first and foremost but embarrassment screamed by his tone and posture. Of course, he’s embarrassed at proposing to her drunk again! She’s embarrassed for him! That’s what she tells herself anyway.

“It’s no problem,” she replies shortly and turns away from him towards the door so that he never sees her face, never clocks the devastation that she probably fails to hide or the tears that sit so heavily in her eyes. Maybe in a week she’ll be able to think of this and not - 

A gust of wind and the door slams shut in front of her face. Skye.

She pulls the handle anyway, certain that her physical strength is more than a match for the girl’s fledgling powers. It rattles as she pulls before settling frustratingly back in place. She scowls over her shoulder at Skye in response. Skye who, with both arms extended outwards, is quite clearly struggling with all her might to keep that damned door closed.

“Running away is not going to help,” Skye grits out between her teeth.

“You should know!” May snaps back mean. She’s on the defensive and she doesn’t like it.

“Yes, I should!” Skye bites out evenly but the hurt shows across her face like a punch to the gut. May feels immediately bad about the jibe; Skye’s past still leaves her gritting her teeth and wanting to right the wrongs the girl suffered through. To fling it back in her face is… sick inducing. She swallows, starts to speak but Skye won’t let her cut in with an apology when she’s on a roll. “I’ve been running away all my life. So, take it from an expert: it doesn’t help!”

Maybe she feels bad enough about dredging up the past that she just concedes to the inevitable. She and Coulson were going to have to have this conversation at some point anyway now that it’s been forced out in the light of day. So rather than fight or run, she turns her back to the door and leans against it feigning a casual pose that comes no where near to how she really feels. 

At the concession, Skye drops her arms and collapses back down to the bedding, suddenly exhausted.

“You should be conserving your energy for healing,” May berates her softly, concerned that the girl should not have pushed herself so hard, certainly not just for her.

“You should be explaining why mom and dad aren’t getting married,” Skye says shortly without rising from where she lies staring up at the ceiling like she hasn’t the energy to force herself back up to sitting or even to raise her head. It twists the knife in her heart.

“Skye-” Phil finally interrupts, his tone cautioning Skye against causing more hurt. He’s always read her mind far too easily. Always seeing more than she wants him to see… but always kind with it. He’ll no doubt let her down gently. More it’s not you, it’s me. And other trite excuses no one ever believes. She’s no doubt she’ll survive this even if it hurts. They’ll still be friends after, she tells herself. Within a few weeks it’ll be just like it was before.

“You asked her to marry you,” Skye continues on the attack notwithstanding his tone or how he stands cautiously and moves closer like he can physically stop the words from continuing. “Don’t you wanna know why she didn’t say yes? You know she wants to!”

““SKYE-”” It’s both of them that speak out in stereo to try to put a stop to her words this time. There’s no need for this. No need to cause her any more pain or him anymore embarrassment. He didn’t mean it after all.

“He was drugged, okay!” May bites out at the girl, stalking closer with an anger in her stride that she forces merely to conceal the upset that she cannot allow him to detect. It would just make things harder. “He didn’t mean it! People say all sorts of things when they’re drunk! Or drugged! It doesn’t matter. Just let it go!” 

Skye’s eyes have widened in slight fear at her ranting approach but it’s the way Phil has turned from her, his hands wringing nervously that trips her meter. “Phil?” she questions cautiously, cursing herself afterwards, knowing she shouldn’t have.

He mumbles but she can’t make out the words. Then he raises his head, his eyes boring in to her own, as he repeats himself and she still can’t seem to understand his words. “It does matter.”

“I’m sorry?” she’s not certain if she’s apologising or asking for clarity. Even if it does matter… even if the fact it breaks her heart does matter to him, he still doesn’t feel the same and they will just go on as friends. “It doesn’t matter,” she cuts him off before he can answer. “It doesn’t need to matter,” she clarifies immediately thereafter. “It – we just go on like before. It doesn’t mean anything,” she continues insistent. She’s peripherally aware that she’s starting to babble. Forces her teeth to clamp shut before anything else more embarrassing escapes.

His eyes demand her attention even when she’d rather look away and hide. “It matters to me.”

She swallows over a dry throat as her mind races in circles, the same conclusion on each pass around but she cannot accept it. Everything she’s wanted… so close to her grasp. She has to be dreaming.

“I did mean it, Melinda,” he confesses ashamedly and the realisation hits her hard.

“You-”

“No, that’s not right,” he corrects immediately. She draws in a deep breath as her heart plummets from the heights. “I _do_ mean it,” he says instead. Her heart falters in it’s fall and she inhales too rapidly in surprise. She forces her eyes closed, tries to force even and regular breaths, trying to regain some semblance of control over her racing heart as she’s tossed from pillar to post on this emotional rollercoaster that has her mind mixing far too many metaphors for the simple explanation that she’s lost and hurt and her heart can’t keep pace with her brain. 

“I’m sorry that I put you through it and I’m sorry that I keep on doing it and I’m sorry that you don’t feel the same and I know I keep promising myself that it wont be an issue and that I can still just be your friend but-” she’s secretly always loved his impassioned rambling but makes the decision to finally jump off that cliff with the press of her lips to his own mid speech. 

He squeaks adorably in surprise, his eyes open wide and not quite believing. 

So she does it again. And again. Again, until he sighs into the kiss, pushing to deepen it for both them. And it’s perfect. Everything she’s dreamed and more.

Apart from the faked cough in the back ground. The one that’s repeated a number of times unsuccessfully before finally being given up on for the words “Get a room!”

The naughty smirk to Phil’s lips appear to agree with the sentiment as they break apart breathless and she smirks as she sets off intending to lead him from medical to much more privacy. They need privacy to talk this through if nothing else.

“Hey! Aren’t you gonna spring me too?” Skye faux complains, the smirk across her face belying her happiness for them both.

“Nope,” she pops the ‘p’ deliberately. As much as she can personally sympathise with Skye’s desire to get out of medical as soon as possible… this is the best place for her whilst she heals up properly. No one is going to prescribe the pain killers she needs if she’s out on base unsupervised. She appreciates fully that she’s a hippocrit. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t want what’s best for Skye and what’s best for her at the moment is to stay in medical, under professional supervision, until she’s healed up enough to leave… probably about a week before medical clears her, that’s when May will spring her out. 

She’s only here for Phil.

She does take a little pity on the girl though, tossing her the phone she’d slipped from Skye’s bunk in an underhand throw to land gently on the bed beside the girl’s casted leg. 

There’s an unreserved squeal of delight that makes them both laugh. “I am so totally looking for bridesmaid dresses!” Skye shouts threateningly as they hurriedly exit through the doorway. It wouldn’t do for Simmons to return, catch Phil out of bed and demand he return to the cot in medical after all! “Hey, when do I get to be a bridesmaid?” Skye shouts suddenly as they turn the corner away.

“When you stop coming home in casts!” She hollars back, nice to give the girl some incentive to be more careful out on missions. “I am not having you clunking down the aisle in a cast!” 

 

She gives Phil a firm look confirming simply, “That goes for you too, you know. I suggest you be more careful.”

Phil stops suddenly, dragging her back to him by the hand he still holds and pulling her into his embrace. She can’t help thinking, not for the first time, how well they fit together. “Really?” he asks, his heart worn so clearly on his sleeve that she would not dare to refuse him even if she wanted to.

“Really what?” she taunts him slightly anyway but her small smirk is quickly swallowed as he drops down to one knee. Right there in the damned hallway!

“Get up!” she demands, pulling him back to his feet. “You are NOT proposing to me in a corridor!” she threatens simply.

“Okay,” he agrees readily enough. “Where would you like me to propose to you? A yacht? A baseball game? A summer evening just as the sun is setting?” he’s humouring her and as much as she wants to be mad she can’t stop the smile from forcing its way to her lips. “So long as you’re planning to say yes, it doesn’t really matter where I ask, does it?”

It's like he doesn’t know _anything_ about women at all!

“If you propose to me inside the base, I am not saying yes,” she draws the line there if at nothing else and starts walking again. 

“I guess I should make some plans…” he muses, joining her.

“Those plans should probably include you talking to my mother…” she can’t help but laugh at how he stops suddenly, his expression giving her that dear-in-the-headlights look that makes her want to kiss him. Most of his expressions make her want to kiss him.

“It’s traditional to ask the father of the bride…” he attempts to justify and she turns to face him, stepping in close enough to make their moment private, watching as he gulps for an entirely different reason.

“Do you want to explain that to my mother?” she asks him seriously. They both know that her mother will be less than pleased if she hears about it after the event.

“I don’t want to explain anything to your mother,” he whispers back, closing what limited distance there is between them to press a kiss to her smiling lips and revelling in the simple fact that he can now do what he’s spent years of dreaming –

They’re interrupted by the unmistakeable sound of The Ride of the Valkeries blarring from his jacket pocket. He keeps smiling at her as he answers the phone call and she can’t help but smile back at him. His face drops, eyes widening with the edges of fear, “Er… yes, hello Mrs May… Ah, you heard about that then? … Oh, Skye called you, did she? … Yes, well, you see, you were my very next call …”

 

 

x


End file.
